


Home

by IvyOverEasy



Series: The Home is Where The Heart is but my Heart is In Her Hands [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Relationship Study (?), Cheesy title, F/M, I feel like I'm forgetting a tag but I can't remember what it is someone help, Loving Trickery, Marriage, Mentions of DO:Origins/Awakening Characters/OCs, Mentions of Male Warden, Mentions of Male Warden/Morrigan, Mild Monologuing, Non canon compliant, Oops, Pre-Qunari Takeover, Shitty Backstory was squeezed in at some point, Tooth Rotting Fluff, Varric is the best wingman ever, Very Squinty Implied Sexual Content, Wedding, and totally the best Handers shipper alive, au-ish, because i haven't finished this game, but i already hate myself for not fucking anders as many times as humanly possible, warped timeline, why did I write this, why you ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyOverEasy/pseuds/IvyOverEasy
Summary: Years of heartbreak, of wandering and aching, and he was exhausted, given up and alone. Anders wasn't expecting her, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted what she had to offer.But now she's his home. It's as simple as that.(Short fluff briefing over Anders and Hawke's pre/during/post wedding with a shit ton of Anders doubting himself and Hawke coming to save the day.)





	

He guesses that it was an inevitable thing.

Anders is a man. A mage, an outlaw, inhabited by a spirit, but a man, nonetheless. He supposes that it's natural that he wants her-she is kind, patient and just, and, Maker, _buxom_. Every man he knows wants her at least half as bad as he does.

But above them all, she choses him. For three long years he yearns for her, wishes to hold her without any thoughts that he ever truly can. And then she appears on his doorstep, and he tells her; if she leaves her door open to him, he will come to her. If not... he will understand.

When he arrives, the door is swung wide open, and she is waiting outside for _him_.

Four months pass and Anders lives in the same estate as her, rare as it is that they're there-hunting down thugs and slavers seems to be Thesda's favorite passtime. He can see every curl in her shoulder length, ginger hair as he approaches, his heart in his throat, eyes tracing the elegant, broad sweeps of her bare shoulders and curve of her back. The low cut of the back of her dress certainly doesn't help his desires, but even he can put them aside in order to appreciate how much it brings out her feminity; when he first met her, he had assumed that she was a manly brute, and nothing more. Maker, he's glad he was wrong. She's so, so much more than that-it just took a little chipping away at the walls she had built up around herself.

Thesda must hear him approach, because she leans away from the fireplace-she really, _really_ shouldn't be standing so close to soot in that white dress of hers, because Anders know how clumsy she can be when she's home and safe-and blinks at him, and then a tangled string of words leaves her mouth that ends in, " _Shit_ , Anders."

Anders stands straight and clears his throat as she eyes him up and down. He feels naked without his usual robes and thousands of belts and pouches, and he looks down at his red tunic, tugging self conciously on the fitted sleeves.

"It's too much, right?" He looks at her as she looks at him in awe, faintly embarassed. "Are you sure that I can't wear my robes?"

At that, her expression changes and she huffs stubbornly. "If I'm made to wear a dress, you can't wear one too."

They stare at each other for a handful of seconds, and then both burst out in laughter, Anders at ease as he nears her and wraps his arms around her waist, presses his interlocked hands into the small of her back, just feeling her, just grateful that she is _alive_. He saw what happened to her sister-he never, _ever_ wants it to happen to her. He remembers the look of weariness on his old companion's face sometimes, another that had been infected by the blight and inscripted into the Grey Wardens-Theron, a usually bright, witty dalish elf that always seemed to be composed, no matter what situation. It was rare, but sometimes Anders would stand outside his room and just listen-listen to him cry, listen to him express his worries to nothing as he twisted that ring of his like he always did, listen to him lament about never being able to find her. He never found out who the woman he looked so desperately for was, but he knows that she caused his friend a great deal of pain up until the day that he disappeared, leaving behind two skittish elves that had rambled to him about an inheritance left behind for him and his remaining companions. That little redheaded dwarf had seemed the most affected-but Anders had guessed that they were old friends without it being stated.

Thesda shifts her head to rest it in the crook of his collared neck and inhales softly, giggling. She kisses his shoulder through the fabric, lets her hands come to rest on the back of his neck, and whispers, "I'm lucky to have you, Anders."

He takes a moment, just to hold her. She has lost so much-her home, her country, her sister, her mother; and, most recently, he knows that she is affected by Isabela's betrayal. He has caught her crying over their former companion and consoled her-in a lot of ways, she reminds him of his old friend. Maybe it's what drew him to her. Maybe it's why he always seems to know how to handle her. Maybe it's just because he loves her.

His hair is already out of it's usual ponytail and slicked back but Thesda pushes it back further, smiling up at him with those rosy lips, her amber eyes fond as she watches him.

"Maker," She breathes, and he swallows tightly, because she's wearing perfume and he can smell the oil that Merril brought to her earlier in the day as part of the Dalish marriage custom, and she's wonderful and he wonders if he can convince her to wear it more often because then he can pretend that they're a normal couple for once and-and then he realizes that he'd never have her any other way. Forget normality-if they led normal lives, they wouldn't know each other. He'd much rather the musty smell of leather to flowers and perfumes anyday as long as it meant he kept her just as she is.

"You're so handsome, Anders." She says and he can't get enough of the way she talks when they're alone-like she's telling a secret, like her purring voice needs the extra growl to it. It's an odd thing to be attuned to, but he is, and he accepts it.

She kisses him, and then they draw apart, and she leads him by the hand to the vanity sitting on her wall. He knows for a fact that she never once used it before her mother passed-now that he knows that it once belonged to her mother, he understands why he sometimes finds her just sitting in front of it, unmoving. The death is still fresh in her mind, the inability to comprehend why someone would do such a thing so such a sweet woman, the heartbreak and solitude of being the last free woman in her line. When Anders thinks on it, it's heartbreaking. So he tries not to.

He is breathless beyond the point of returning her compliment when she turns and lets him see her fully after donning the veil that previously rested on the vanity. A brittle, silver crown rests amongst the ginger waves, white lace spreading over the back of her hair and trailing down the sides-not completely covering, giving the illusion of flames creeping out from the clouds. Passionate and strong and bold-it suits her.

She passes him a necklace without words and he understands, instructing her quietly to hold her hair up as he slides it around her neck and fastens it, letting her spin back around to face him once more, the flowy skirt of her gown flaring slightly. It's his mother's necklace, one that he's given to her after years of pining and out of utter respect. His mother would want a woman like that to have it.

Not for the first time since he's entered the estate, Anders is knocked breathless. Because now he can appreciate her all dolled up, wearing makeup and perfume and looking every bit as royal as she deserves. Because now he realizes that even though she's always been naturally beautiful, she's a queen when she puts time and effort into her appearance and he can't believe she's so perfect and that she's his and-

"Anders, bend down." He obeys without question, and feels something being slipped around his neck. When he straightens, Thesda is smiling openly at him, appraising him. Her hand rests over the necklace charm she has put on him, weighing over his heart. "It belonged to my father-my real father." She says, her eyes fond. "He told me to give it to my..." She searches for a word, and then her smile broadens. "My other half. I think you're quite worthy."

His eyes prickle and Anders has to look away and snort in order to stop himself from throwing his arms around her and never letting her go. "What a cheesy guy."

But she understands. Of course she understands.

Thesda leans up on her toes to kiss him, twisting her fingers in his tunic as her teeth nip faintly at his lips before she pulls back, a twinkle in her brilliant eyes. Her hands slide down to one of his, and she tugs.

"Come, now. We're going to miss our own wedding."

And he follows, because he's not sure he can stand one minute away from her anymore.

* * *

 

They take their vows before an entire clan and community, before the Dalish keeper. It is a rare moment where Humans and elves and dwarves join in peace, all rejoicing in a union of two beloved heros-a few Qunari even show up to give their respects, apparently in debt to Thesda from when she had saved their hides in Fereldan. They growl and sniff at Anders like he's the scum of the earth before demanding that he protect and honor their Kadan, and eventually Thesda has to shoo them away from him, promising that they will discuss a new weaponry that they've mentioned as soon as she sees them again.

Anders is surprised that the Keeper even agrees to do the service, on top of letting them bring such a large crowd into their secluded camp. But then he remembers something that was mentioned to Merril once-" _My father is Dalish, you know."_ -and he's suddenly unsurprised as he pieces together that the man who was inscripted into the Grey Wardens must have been him, even though he's got no doubt that Thesda must already know this.

Anders is tattooed alongside her; the clan's crest imprinted into their hands, woven together with that of the Amell family crest. It's an unimaginable honor to have them both, Hawke informs him later, as they sit and enjoy the festivities. It's the respect of the clan and of her deceased relatives, and he can tell how much she values it as she stares at the tattoo in wonder on their way home.

There is another party thrown at the estate-for those who were too fearful of the Dalish to view the actual ceremony-and Varric keeps all but a few stray dancers and drinkers distracted with his wild stories of Thesda saving the day. Anders follows her up the stairs to her room, discreet, and is grateful that he has not misread her hand signals, because when he arrives she pulls him further into the room, shuts and locks the door behind him, and grins at him.

Her vail has long since been taken off, the ceremonial gown replaced with a looser, crimson robe. It goes against tradition-only the impure should wear red before the wedding night, and he knows that she's pure because he's the only man she's ever even kissed-but he doesn't rightly care as she slinks closer and wraps her arms around his neck, her body lithe and strong but oh-so-soft as his hands rest on her waist.

Thesda leans up and kisses him, and Anders feels himself falling farther for her, wanting her in every way imaginable and aching when she pulls him forward by the collar, leaning back onto the plush bed in the middle of the spacious room. He gasps like she's done something scandelous.

"Thesda, there's still people-"

"Downstairs, distracted," Her grin is predatory, and he realizes all too late that she's planned this, like she always does. He supposes it's to be expected-she's a rogue, a natural strategist and stealthy to boot. But the fact that they're rightfully married now and she can still play him like a lute is alarming.

Her lips press to his ear, and she purrs, "And besides, the door is locked. Varric will give them all a good reason as to why we're gone, won't he?"

Anders swallows dryly. When he speaks, he sounds out of breath. "He knows...?"

"I... may have alluded to stealing you away from the party for a short while." Her fingers trace down the seam of his tunic and she grins up at him, entirely too innocent for what she's just admitted to. He knows that a short while is likely to be hours upon hours, and he's not prepared in the slightest-he's seen her nude, in the midst of changing or when he was healing her, but he's never... _seen_ her. It's always been on business, without meaning to-he's never gotten the opportunity to just sit and look, much less touch.

"Come, husband." She raises the necklace she put on him earlier to her lips, a gesture of honor and respect that he imagines is for him just as much as it is her father. He does the same, holding her hand in his as he lifts the pearls around her neck to kiss them, and Thesdas notices with gleaming eyes.

She kisses the necklace after him, whispering, "Thank you for bearing such a wonderful son."

He holds his own necklace tightly in his fist, silently, eyes shut. _Thank you. Thank you so, so much for bringing her into this world. Thank you for helping to create such a wonderful, beautiful person. Thank you for letting her come into my life. Thank you for giving me someone so capable of loving. Thank you, thank you, thank you so, so much._

"Anders," She pokes him between the brows, smiling like she knows exactly what he's thinking. "You're going to get wrinkles if you crinkle your brow so."

"I've already got quite a few," He laughs airily, sucking in a deep breath and taking her hand in his, his other hand resting on her back as he lowers her into the bed, pressing his head over her heart and just listening. Thesda rests her hands on his head and strokes his slicked back hair, which is in desperate need of fixing.

"Thank you." He whispers, and she hums. "Thank you for letting me be this happy."

"Thank you for letting me love you." She says softly in return, and Anders' heart melts.

He knows that the bride is the one that usually cries when the man proposes, but Thesda hadn't shed a single tear; he had sobbed when she said yes. Just like now, where the maiden traditionally is crying and pouring her heart out, Anders is doing it for her. He presses his face into her stomach and just holds her, shaking, because he's _him_ , and there's no way that he could possibly be this happy. He has to be dreaming, he thinks, but every touch of her hands over his skin, reassuring him, comforting him, bring him to the realization that this is happening, that she really loves him, that there exists a woman who hasn't given up on him-who won't ever give up on him.

There is a threat of a Qunari uprising over their head, an alienage stuffed full of oppressed people and a blood mage, a runaway rogue with the potential to start a race war in her hands, and so, _so_ much more. There's no brightness in their future, and Anders knows that. He knows that he'll die before her; he knows that they risk their lives every day in combat, that he shouldn't rely so heavily on her, that he shouldn't depend so much on her love and her brightness for keeping him alive.

He knows, but for the moment, he can ignore it.

For once, just this once, he embraces the feeling of being home.

**Author's Note:**

> meh.


End file.
